


Big Bad Wolf

by Atisenia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Costumes, Fairy Tale Retellings, Humor, M/M, Romance, The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton, Tumblr: letswritesherlock, and some other(s), and then there's the mash up with a canon story, based on Little Red Riding Hood, with a bit of Cinderella
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 12:24:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atisenia/pseuds/Atisenia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock go to a costume ball at Milverton's. On bussiness, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Big Bad Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> My first entry for Let's Write Sherlock's [Challenge 2](http://letswritesherlock.tumblr.com/post/53511388655/challenge-1-is-still-open-until-june-30-but-were). 
> 
> I don't quite know what happened here. This story just demanded to be written and I didn't even have to think that much about the costumes. And why the mash up of the Little Red Riding Hood with The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton? That sort of just happened and I can only guess it's because I find the canon story hilarious.
> 
> English is not my first language and I work on it but there are probably still some mistakes. You can always let me know.;)

“This is ridiculous,”  Sherlock growls, poking uselessly at his sleeves.

“Yep,” John agrees, trying to put on the boots. The bloody things keep getting stuck.

Sherlock scowls at him. 

“I don’t like this idea. It’s a stupid idea,” he says and pouts.

“Yep.” John wins the battle with one of the boots and smiles with satisfaction. “It’s also _your_ idea, genius.”

Sherlock groans.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he mutters. “I don’t want to go anymore.”

“Well, that’s a shame,” John says and does absolutely nothing to stop the preparations.

“John!” Sherlock positively whines and John can only sigh before he looks at him, annoyed.

“ _Sherlock_ …” he says and hopes it conveys all the hidden meanings.

It does, apparently because Sherlock scowls.

“But—” he starts.

“No,” John says and stands up from the sofa to see if the boots finally fit. They do. “I haven’t gone to all that trouble finding us costumes so that you could just cancel the thing at the last minute. We’re going.”

If the looks could kill… well, John would actually be long dead by now so the daggers in Sherlock’s eyes can’t affect him anymore.

“If you picked us better costumes…” Sherlock’s voice trails off suggestively and John glares at him with a mask in one hand and a hat in the other.

“Sherlock,” he begins, dangerously close to his soldier voice: calm but threatening. Sherlock shudders and scowls at him. “It seems that the whole bloody city goes to that party. These,” he gestures between them, “were the only ones left. And I had to fight for them. Like _actually_ really fight. So shut up and put your ribbon on.”

Sherlock sulks but puts the ridiculous red ribbon in his hair.

“I could be the cat,” he mutters.

“No, you couldn’t,” John says, exasperated. “You’re too bloody tall.” He puts the mask on and is surprised to find it rather comfortable. Which, apparently, can’t be said about Sherlock’s dress.

“So you’re saying you could have easily dressed as one of my dwarves too?” Sherlock asks, picking at his sleeves again.

John takes a deep breath and counts to ten. And then he counts again.

“Do you need help with the cloak?” he asks innocently enough. “You can’t have a Snow White without a cloak.”

Actually, you probably could. He wouldn’t have even mentioned the cloak but no one picks on John’s height and gets away with it (unless John’s too content to care, which he isn’t right now).

Sherlock, predictably, sulks but, also predictably, allows John to secure the cloak.

“Now go and fetch my coat,” he says, looking at John as if someone who’s not Sherlock would look at a bug.

“Well, look who’s the princess now,” John says and quite enjoys the furious look Sherlock’s sending him while he goes to fetch the coats.

 

***

 

It does look a bit as if the whole city decided to come to Milverton’s carnival ball. John has already spotted fourteen other people dressed like Puss in Boots — which he greeted with polite nods — and twenty three other Snow Whites — which Sherlock greeted with scowls.

“Stop that,” John tells him when Sherlock continues to glare at another poor woman who decided to dress like him. He might make a hole in her skull if John doesn’t intervene.

Sherlock’s scowl shifts to John, which is rather ineffective.

“If you found me a costume from a less known fairy tale—“ Sherlock says,

“Then we wouldn’t have been able to attend this ridiculous party at all,” John finishes for him. “Come on, Sherlock! We’re not here for the mood. I wouldn’t have thought you’d care.”

“But they’re all the same, John!” Sherlock whines and John has to stifle a giggle. He looks around and smirks.

“Well…” he drawls. “There’s a mirror over there. We can go and find out if you’re still the fairest of them all.”

Sherlock scowls at him again and this time John can’t help but laugh. Sherlock soon joins him and people look pointedly at them as they chuckle like a pair of idiots. There’s nothing new with the world.

“Is Eva here?” John asks when he manages to compose himself.

Sherlock gestures to the right.

“See the group over there? Next to that horrible copy of Rembrandt? She’s the Red Riding Hood.”

John searches the crowd and sees her. He nods.

“Isn’t it a bit risky to come here?” he asks but doesn’t get an answer. He glances at his friend who has his eyes narrowed at something John can’t see. Sherlock’s face is distorted by disgust he doesn’t show even Anderson on his bad days. “Sherlock?” John calls but again, there’s no answer. He tries to find what’s caused Sherlock’s reaction. All he can see is a man dressed as a wolf.

Then it finally dawns on him.

“Milverton,” Sherlock confirms his suspicions. “The Big Bad Wolf who’ll eat the girl, unless she cooperates. And then he’ll eat her anyway. How… _fitting_ ,” he says with a grimace and leaves John to follow as he strides through the crowd to get to Milverton.

 

***

 

It takes approximately ten seconds for John to absolutely hate Milverton. He’s a sly little man who looks like a rat with a gremlin smile, currently in a wolf’s skin.

“Well, well, well, isn’t that a lovely exchange for the dwarves?” is the first thing Milverton says as he sees them. He smiles and John can almost see the whiskers moving.

He feels Sherlock tense beside him, so he lightly brushes the back of his hand with his own. It always seems to help a bit for some reason.

“I’m not here to discuss fairy tales,” Sherlock says and there’s a threat in his eyes.

“Then maybe you should reconsider,” Milverton drawls and smirks. John wants very much to punch him. “Fairy tales can be more true than you think.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Do you plan on engaging in cannibalism then?” he asks.

Milverton giggles, high-pitched and unpleasant. John fights the urge to wince.

“We don’t have all night,” Sherlock adds, impatient.

“On the contrary,” Milverton says, still amused. “You have until the day after tomorrow. But if you insist…” He clears his throat and looks at Sherlock with undivided attention of his small eyes. “Eight million pounds and it’s not up for negotiation.”

 

***

 

Sherlock sulks and John thinks about doing the same. Or possibly just punch Milverton in his smug face without saving any teeth, noses or cheekbones. He doesn’t, though, because _that_ might just make things worse. Besides, someone has to take care of the unhappy princess after that complete _failure_ of a negotiation.

John wasn’t even sure if they negotiated at all. The only things Milverton was willing to concede were meaningless details like form of payment (cash instead of remittance, which didn’t help), instalments (two instead of one but very close in time and with high interest, utterly useless) or exchange of the blackmail ( _business_ , right) material (photos before payment, video after instead of all after). It changed nothing. Eva still couldn’t pay that much. She can’t even pay the tenth part of it.

John quietly directs some carefully chosen invectives at Milverton’s retreating figure and expects Sherlock to react accordingly. But he doesn’t. John looks around, confused, but Sherlock is nowhere to be seen.

Well then. John goes find himself a beer.

 

***

 

It’s the dress, John decides. It must be the dress making his brain all confused. And that ridiculous ribbon as well. It doesn’t _actually_ mean anything. Well, except for the fact that he’s probably going mad.

Sherlock stands on the other side of the enormous hall and smiles, laughs and _flirts_ with a pretty girl from catering. _How_ exactly is he succeeding in that bloody Snow White dress, John has no idea. (And isn’t that just unfair? He seems unable to hold a girl’s interest no matter what he wears these days.)

Sherlock leans more in the girl’s personal space and John’s stomach does a funny thing. It must the beer. He sets the bottle on the table and folds his arms. Then he tries to convince himself — again — that Sherlock’s behaviour doesn’t affect him (although it does).

He’s just surprised, John tells himself. Sherlock’s never shown much interest in anyone. Well, maybe except that Adler woman and that was a failure. He does occasionally charm the people useful to his work but never to that extent. Now he just doesn’t hold back and flirts with someone who isn’t John…

No. _Nope_. Stop that thought. He doesn’t even _want_ Sherlock to flirt with him. What is even his problem right—

Oh, God, now they’re kissing. Just a quick chaste kiss but a kiss nonetheless. John freezes. It’s just the dress. It’s just the dress. It’s just—

Ok, maybe _not_ just the dress, he admits, resigned, and groans when he sees Sherlock take the girl by the hand and head towards the toilets.

So… Whiskey time.

 

***

 

“John,” he hears Sherlock say beside him when he’s about to change whisky for brandy. He refuses to look at his friend, afraid what he could see. “I think you should go home.”

John deflates.

“Oh,” he says and forces himself to look at Sherlock. He seems… bemused. “Are you…” John starts and clears his throat. “Are you having company?” he asks, trying not to sound as if it was an important question.

Sherlock frowns and then his eyebrows shoot up. He waves a dismissive hand.

“She’s a staff member. She knows the house and was happy to chat with a—“ he coughs, “kissing incentive. But she really just wanted to make the gardener jealous.”

“Oh,” John says. And then, “oh! So you’re not— But you just said— Hang on! Why do you want me to go home?”

Sherlock tries to look innocent but fails. His eyes are shining and his body is full of anticipation. (John promptly ignores the swollen lips.)

“Sherlock,” John demands and Sherlock scowls at him. John thinks he might disappear again without answering but, eventually, Sherlock relents.

“Milverton is not going to alter the deal,” he mutters. “And he’ll probably give us copies anyway and save the originals for another… _opportune moment_.” He winces and John mirrors him. “So, I will have to retrieve them myself.”

John stares at him for a moment, torn between saying how absolutely shitty this idea is and just going with it to show the bastard. Unfortunately, one of them has to actually _think_.

“Okay, listen,” he says calmly. “Do you remember the last time we tried to retrieve some blackmail material? You ended up drugged, beaten and involved in a game you nearly los—“

“This is different,” Sherlock protests.

“Yes, it’s worse. Adler was only playing with you. This, _this_ , can ruin you. Ruin _us_.”

He expects Sherlock to protest some more so he’s surprised when his friend merely nods.

“Which is why I need you to go home,” Sherlock says.

John gapes at him. He’s equally touched and annoyed.

“You can’t be serious,” he says after a moment of stunned silence.

“I am. This is dangerous, John. And not in a funny chasing-the-criminals way. _We_ would be the criminals here.”

“This isn’t our first breaking and entering,” John says.

“But this time, it can end with a prison sentence even Mycroft won’t be able to revoke.”

John thinks about it. He nods.

“Fine. Then I’ll be in the cell with you.”

“You’re staying,” Sherlock says and glares at him.

“Then you’re not going!”

They glare at each other, angry and determined.

“You can’t stop me,” Sherlock says.

“Oh, yes, I can. In fact, I’m gonna phone the police right now if you as much as step a foot out of this room.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” Sherlock dismisses him and starts walking.

John holds out his phone and enters the number. His thumb hovers over the call button.

“Try me,” he says and there must be something in his voice because Sherlock spins on his heel and looks at John. Then he sighs and goes back to stand beside him.

“And you say _I_ am stubborn,” he mutters.

John grins.

“No, you’re just infuriating,” he says. “So… cellmates, huh?” he says with an unnecessarily giddy voice.

Sherlock smirks.

“It does sound like a natural progression from flatmates,” he says. “People will talk though.”

John grins again.

“People do little else,” he says and it makes them both giggle. “God, we’re hopeless,” John says when he manages to catch his breath. He looks at Sherlock. “Let’s join the dark side then,” he says and giggles again at Sherlock’s blank expression.

 

***

 

“Well, the… _incentive_ was obviously efficient,” John says when they slip into Milverton’s office.

They managed to sneak past the guards and they weren’t seen by the cameras. That’s quite an achievement in this stupidly big house with enhanced security.

“You haven’t quite told me what we’re looking for here,” John says, looking at a wolf statuette that sits on the desk. He picks it up in his gloved hand and winces. “He’s not even trying to be subtle, is he?”

Sherlock smirks, which looks rather eerie in the torchlight that casts shadows on his face.

“Maybe we can use it,” he says and starts the computer on the desk. “He wouldn’t have all the data here, though. Probably none at all or just backup copies. Too much danger of a virus or hacking or a simple system failure. But we _might_ be able to find something here.”

He gestures for John to sit at the desk. John obliges him and Sherlock begins to work the safe.

“It’s password protected,” John says and blinks at the screen.

“So it is,” Sherlock says and groans. “That stupid ribbon. Take it, John.”

“What?”

“Hold my ribbon.”

John rolls his eyes and extends his arm to take the bloody ribbon. He leaves it next to the laptop.

“So?” he asks.

“So what?”

 “Password, Sherlock!”

“What about it?”

John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“I don’t know it,” he says.

Sherlock turns and looks at him sharply.

“You do.”

“No, Sherlock. I really don’t.”

Sherlock looks at him with his annoyed-at-other-people’s-ignorance glare and sighs.

“There’s a wolf statuette on the desk and another one on the shelf. He probably fancies himself some kind of a predator. You were the one who pointed out he’s obnoxious.”

“That was a general statement,” John says.

“Try ‘wolf’. Capital W.”

Right. John shrugs and types the password. It works.

“Huh. That confident, is he?” he says. “What am I looking for?”

“Anything you can find,” Sherlock says and John feels dismissed again. What did Sherlock say before? That there’s probably nothing of use on the computer? Right.

John goes through the files, probably with too much enthusiasm. He wants to actually find something, anything really, to show Sherlock wrong.

“You know, I’m not actually useless,” John says, clicking away some pop-up windows. “I can actually do—“ he pauses when another annoying window divides the screen in nine.

He looks closer and his heart rate increases.

“Sherlock,” he says and a second later the safe pops open with a triumphant little laugh from his friend. “Sherlock!” John repeats and Sherlock finally looks at him, annoyed. John points at the screen. “We have company.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the camera feed and looks around the room.

“We can’t leave now,” he says, pulling at the laptop’s cable and battery.

“But—“

“Behind the curtain,” Sherlock says and pulls John from the chair.

“But— Wait! the—“

“Not now!”

John is unceremoniously shoved behind the curtain before he can protest some more. Sherlock immediately joins him.

“The ribbon, you idiot,” John hisses, just as the door to the office opens.

 

***

 

The first shot goes through Milverton’s middle. It might have missed the heart and John might have saved him if Sherlock didn’t hold him tightly. And if the second shot didn’t go between Milverton’s eyes. He’s dead on the spot and the woman dressed like a hunter escapes before anyone can notice.

They jump from behind the curtain and get to work without a word. Sherlock puts on the ribbon, pulls at his cloak and throws the external hard drives at it and John tries to work the laptop.

“Leave it,” Sherlock says, twisting the cloak into a bundle.

“But if there’s something in there—“

“Oh, _fine_ ,” Sherlock says and disentangles the bundle to add the laptop.

There are footsteps on the corridor.

 “Sherlock…” John warns and locks the door.

“I can _hear_ them,” Sherlock says, annoyed. “I’m not deaf.”

“Right, _genius_ ,” John snaps. “So what do you suggest? We sit here until they get bored and go away?”

Sherlock looks contemplative for a moment.

“We could go to the roof,” he says and John freezes.

“No,” John says. “Absolutely not!”

“But they wouldn’t expect—“

“No one will go to the bloody roof and certainly no one will _jump off_ the bloody fucking roof!”

Sherlock purses his lips but doesn’t protest.

“Fine,” he says at last when the guards’ voices are already on the other side of the door. They’re going to have to pry it open, which gives John time to think of a plan that doesn’t involve roofs.

Suddenly, Sherlock snaps into action. He tears at the curtains and rolls them rope-like.

“You can’t be serious,” John says.

“We can’t go up to the roof, so we’ll go down through the window,” Sherlock explains, as if it was a perfect solution.

“They won’t hold us!” John exclaims.

“Even so, it’s only three floors.”

John shakes his head and attaches the makeshift rope to a leg of the desk he’s dragged to the window. There’s a loud bang on the door.

“Hurry up!” John hisses and Sherlock ties the other curtain to the first. It’s still too short but they don’t have many options.

“Keep your mask on,” Sherlock says, ties the bundle to the dress, grabs the rope and gracefully descends on the side of the building. Even in a dress his moves are smooth.

“You don’t have a mask!” John shouts after him but obediently readjusts his own.

“But I have a dress. And a ribbon. It seems to confuse some people.”

John wants to argue but doesn’t say a word. He suspects he’s in the “some people” category anyway.

There’s a louder bang at the door and so John grabs the rope too. His arm protests when he begins to descend. The desk protests too and he’s only a floor lower when it turns over and, thankfully, gets stuck in the window.

But the moment of free falling was enough to set John’s muscles on fire. He cries out and nearly lets go of the rope. Then he’s pulled onto a balcony.

“Thanks,” he murmurs when Sherlock manhandles him and looks for injuries. “I’m fine,” John says, annoyed, and pats at Sherlock’s hands.

“There’s the fire escape ladder,” Sherlock says, pointing to the left. “It ends about six foot above the ground but we should be able to easily manage that.”

“Yeah, alright,” John says and they continue their journey down. When they’re finally on the ground, John knows his leg’s going to hate him too.

“Stop right there!” a guard who’s spotted them shouts. Sherlock looks at him and John nods. They run. The guard shoots after them but it’s dark and he’s obviously not very skilled.

They reach the fence which Sherlock climbs effortlessly, as always.

“Seriously?” John groans and begins to climb. He’s nearly on top when someone pulls at his leg. The guard’s got hold of John’s boot and the bloody thing won’t come out.

Finally, the guard pulls stronger and ends up with John’s boot while John tips over the fence and falls at Sherlock. They both grin.

“Now what?” John asks.

“Now we run some more,” Sherlock says. And they do.

 

***

 

The door to 221B closes and they collapse with laughter. After all, they have just run through half of the London in full costumes. It’s a good thing Sherlock knows the city so well because otherwise they might have faced something more serious than an annoyed text from Mycroft. As it is, they’re relatively safe.

“That was just… so…”

“Ridiculous?” Sherlock suggests beside him and John grins.

“Yeah, I’d say.”

“How’s your foot?” Sherlock asks and John shrugs.

“I’ll survive,” he says. “How’s the… um… the _cargo_?”

“It will die soon,” Sherlock says with a straight face that makes John laugh again. He leans into Sherlock’s space and only then he realizes how close they are. Neither of them seems to move but the mood has changed considerably.

John tried to reason with himself after that _kissing incident_. He told himself that it was the dress after all and he very nearly believed it. Yet now he’s looking Sherlock in the eye (and, alright, sometimes his eyes wander to his lips) and the tension between them has nothing to do with the dress.

Does he really want it though? Does Sherlock want him? Does he suddenly want Sherlock? Does he want to jeopardize all they already have for something that may not be more than a fleeting fancy? Does it mean he’s gay? Bi? Does it really matter?

Sherlock leans in and silences his thoughts with a kiss, and there are no more questions after that.

 

***

 

John wakes up with an aching arm and a smile on his face in spite of it. He takes a long hot shower that helps his muscles a bit. When he emerges into the living area, Sherlock is already involved in some experiment. He looks like himself again, in pyjama bottoms and dressing gown and John smiles at him fondly.

“Morning,” he says and puts the kettle on. Sherlock murmurs something in reply but gets tea anyway. John’s mood is too good to be so easily spoiled.

He switches the TV on to watch the news and nearly chokes on his tea.

“Sherlock!” he calls out and Sherlock, amazingly appears in the living room at once. John doesn’t want to know how he must have sounded.

“What is it, John?”

“We’re in the news.”

“Well, that’s hardly—“

“No, Sherlock.” John looks at him pointedly. “It’s about last night.”

Sherlock actually looks confused.

“But I checked and there are no cameras in the flat, so—“

“No,” John interrupts, horrified at the thought. “ _No_. It’s about Milverton.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says and John thinks he sees colour con his cheekbones it disappears before he can be sure.

They watch the material after that and John relaxes a bit when Sherlock points out why exactly they won’t catch them and how would they defend themselves if ‘the police stopped being so moronic and actually thought for a change, which is unlikely’. Sherlock has already disposed of the hard drives and the laptop.

Before the material ends, they hear footsteps on the stairs and are greeted to a sight of Greg Lestrade carrying a boot. John’s boot. John tries not to show he’s in any way affected.

“Oh, good, you already know,” Greg says and John frowns. Isn’t he here to arrest them? “I need your help. A big case like this should be interesting for you.”

Well, could John’s life get even more surreal?

“Boring,” Sherlock states and John envies him his neutral tone.

“We have no lead,” Greg says. He glances at John who only shrugs. He’s not going to help with this one. “The cameras went all… funny, so we have no visual proof except for this.” He gives John his boot and John wills himself not to giggle. It’s difficult. “And the witness says the culprit was dressed like the Puss in Boots. There were probably two burglars but the witness didn’t see the other one well enough. They took the laptop and whatever was in the safe. And then disappeared. It has to be at least an eight.”

“Not interested,” Sherlock says and this time he even sounds annoyed.

“The culprit is of an average height,” Greg insists, clearly desperate. “Light hair, probably slim but well-built. Oh, and wears boots size eight.”

“That’s not helpful at all,” Sherlock complains. “No special features? You could as well be describing John.”

Greg rises his eyebrows at John and John wants to strangle Sherlock. Or possibly punch him. It wasn’t suspicious _at all_. He probably thinks it’s very funny. John tries not to look guilty and frowns as if confused.

“Of course John wears a ten, but the point stands,” Sherlock adds. “Besides, Milverton’s the worst thing this city has experienced apart from the traffic and smoking restrictions so I’m not interested in finding the person who killed him. Bye bye, good day to you.” He dismisses Lestrade with a hand.

Greg purses his lips and looks at John who extends the boot in his direction with a — hopefully — apologetic expression on his face.

“Take it,” Greg says and sighs. “It’s useless, the only fingerprints we could identify belonged to the guard, so…” He shrugs. “Be careful, you two,” he says and leaves.

John looks at Sherlock questioningly.

“Yes, he knows,” Sherlock says. “Or rather suspects. But it’s enough to leave us alone.”

“And lose evidence?” John asks. “You know I wear eight.”

“Yes. But Lestrade doesn’t.”

“Well, even if he made me try it, it’s too damn tight.”

He knows it’s a wrong thing to say when Sherlock’s eyes focus on him with a mischievous gleam.

“I think we need to try it out, _princess_ ,” he says.

John smiles.

“Is that revenge for the ribbon?”

“Maybe,” Sherlock admits with a smug smile of his own. John kisses it right out of his stupid face.


End file.
